


homecoming

by spookylinn



Series: stuff i write after i see a captain america movie and i get sad [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Angst, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Is Trying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, basically bucky has a panic attack, jesus christ - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6697378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookylinn/pseuds/spookylinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(the one where bucky has a panic attack, and steve calms him down)</p>
            </blockquote>





	homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> saw civil war last week. died. 
> 
> was also very inspired by the trigger words used in the movie, as u'll see. 
> 
> for this i kind of wanted to describe bucky's thoughts (well- what i made of it) and how he's dealing with his ptsd.  
> i was also a lil inspired by seb's ig comments, and things he been sayin bout bucky in recent interviews. 
> 
> comments are very much appreciated!
> 
> my tumblr is purspctives.tumblr.com  
> my twitter is @buckydjh

_longing_. _rusted. seventeen._

He inhaled, slowly. They're just words, he told himself. They're just words, and that's all.

_daybreak. furnace._

He wondered if he'd ever be the same again. Faintly, he remembered. He remembered smiling, being happy. He remembered feeling brave. And when he closed his eyes, he could sometimes see Brooklyn's buildings, with a purple sunset setting and his eyes crinkling. He remembered dancing on the rooftops, and laughing wholeheartedly. 

_nine. benign._

He could hear them in his head sometimes, the words. And when he looked in the mirror, he could almost _feel_ himself killing again. Cause that's the thing with his memories: the good ones came slowly and the bad ones came in waves. 

He wrote it all down, cause he's scared he'd forget again. It's not just the nice memories, no, it's the bad ones too. And there were a lot of those.

He could see the faces. At night, when he tried to sleep, he recalled them. They're drained of colour, scared, and they looked at him with big eyes. He's got their blood dripping down his wrists and they're weeping, whispering. Begging for mercy. 

He never quite got that.

_homecoming._

He hadn't felt safe, at home, in decades. Even now, in the Avengers Facility, with Steve in the room next to him. He doubted he ever will. At least he wouldn't be getting his mind wiped anymore, not for now. Till somebody'd find him.

_they'll find you._

He tried to remember what 'home' used to feel like, but he could only ever remember small moments. Fragments. 

He sat in front of the mirror for hours, and he's tearing himself apart. He knew he should try to sleep, but his bed was too soft, too gentle. Showering, he couldn't do either. 

He decided it's the arm.

It's his goddamn bionic arm, and every time he looked at it he remembered killing, ruthlessly, without emotion. He could see a fragile throat between the metal fingers, every time he closed his eyes. 

And then he couldn't breathe. 

He was panting, trying to catch his breath. And he's overflowing with emotions, feelings, and a sharp pain in his chest. Mostly though, he was scared. Scared he'd go mad, scared of having no one, scared he'd die right then and there. 

 _it's the arm._  

He used to get this scared during his early years with HYDRA. First it'd been agression, confusion. Then fear. They'd document that. 'You're merely a weapon' they'd tell him, with a slap across the face, 'Weapons don't feel. Weapons don't get scared'. And when they'd found him gasping for air, leaning over his dirty cell sink, one day, they'd taught him the words. 

Trigger words, they were. They used to be ordinary to him, and now he'd get anxious hearing even only one of them.

 _longing_. A slap across the face. A bleeding nose. 

 _rusted._ A beaten up face. 

They'd teach him with torture. They'd hurt him, and that's all they'd ever do. They'd programmed him, used his fear. 

 _freight car_. He remembered falling. 

Steve'd told him that he wouldn't rest until HYDRA would be gone, vanished. They'd have to pay for what they'd done to Bucky. He'd softly spoken about it as they looked over the city, out of Steve's window, and all Bucky had done was nod.

He couldn't even tell Steve how he could remember it all now, the faces, the people. The blood. Cause every time he'd tried to talk, his breath got stuck. And he cursed himself because he's messed up, he's bad, something was wrong. 

_it's the arm._

It was the arm, and he slammed it against the wall. He tugged at it with his other hand, beat it over and over and he wasn't breathing. He'd broken the mirror but he kept going, kept punching, cause if he had to live with the _goddamn_ thing attached to him for any longer he was going to go mad. 

And that's when someone stopped him. 

He concluded it's Steve when he felt a hand on his chest. Cause sometimes mere touches'd bring back memories, and he thought about how he'd panicked during a mission against HYDRA, in the 40s. He'd fallen down to his knees, breathless, and Steve'd done the exact same thing. He'd placed a hand on Bucky's chest, softly, and told him to breathe. And it was Steve's voice that'd brought him back. 

"I'm worried bout you Buck" he'd told him, soft eyes, and everything'd been fine for Steve. He'd been Captain America, he'd been doing so good. And Bucky couldn't even breathe. "I just want to go home" he'd said, head pounding. 

"Try to breathe Bucky". Again, that soft voice. 

Steve'd been saying his name a lot lately, and Bucky wasn't gonna pretend like he didn't know why. 

It was to remind him that he's a person, he existed. He's not just a weapon, an object. He's human, still. 

He was Bucky. 

Cause he hadn't had an identity for a long time. He'd always been 'the asset' or 'the soldier'. He hadn't even been able to remember his own name. They'd given him the mask too, to cover his mouth, his words. 'You're not supposed to speak' they'd tell him. 

And he's trying so hard. Trying to find himself again, writing stuff down in his notebook. But when someone'd made you believe something for years, it became a voice in your head. 

 _you're not supposed to speak._ He tried to talk. 

 _you're merely a weapon._ He couldn't breathe. 

There was a hand around his wrist too now. He wasn't slamming his metal arm anymore, he's too tired. 

"Bucky, breathe" Steve told him again. He inhaled deeply. 

 _best friends since childhood, bucky barnes and steven rogers were inseparable_ \- he recalled. He had that voice in his head too, the one from the Smithsonian.

He thought of Steve. 

Steve with artist hands and pale blue eyes lighting up under the Brooklyn nightsky. His courage, and his soft, smiling face. Steve, the only one left. The only one he'd ever have. 

He leaned into the touch of Steve's hand slightly, his head back against the wall. And after a while, his breathing slowed down a little. 

Steve smiled gently. "That's it Buck"- and Bucky nodded. 

"Sorry" he said quietly. He bit his lip. "It's hard".

He didn't specifically know what he meant by that, but he's thinking maybe, maybe he's talking about his life. Apologizing for it. Cause he's trying so hard, and yet. 

Yet it felt like the world was slipping away from his fingers, he's losing his grip. Yet he felt like nothing but a burden, like it'd be better for everyone if he'd just dissappear. And he's thinking no one would ever love him again, not even himself. 

Steve went to sit next to him. "Don't apologize" he told Bucky. "It's not your fault. It's never been". 

That didn't take away the fact that he's the one who'd done it.

He's the one who'd killed people, destroyed families. And it's like he's having a terrible, terrible nightmare, only to wake up with the discovery that it's not a nightmare at all. It was real. 

It was the feeling of being helpless that's really tearing him apart, and he's thinking that if he'd been just a little stronger, a little braver, he could've stopped it. He could've overcome them. 

Maybe he'd never been strong enough. Not in the war, not now. 

"I should've fought back" he said, crack in his voice- "I should've tried harder". 

Steve turned to him, rubbed his wrist tenderly. "You did all you could" he told him, and Bucky felt like he might explode. 

He wondered if Steve knew he's Bucky's lifeline, his only safety. He wondered if he should tell him. 

"I sometimes wish I hadn't survived that fall" he said, in honesty, and something in Steve's eyes broke. 

He'd spent nights wishing he was dead, and all that'd stopped him was that faint thought of Steve. 

_inseparable._

"I sometimes wish I'd gone to look for you" Steve said then, voice softer than ever, and Bucky suddenly just wanted to touch him, hold him. 

They hadn't given eachother a hug in years. It'd only been small, tender touches ever since Steve'd found him. And with every touch he remembered nights spent laughing, looking out over the skyline of the city. He remembered Steve holding back his tears at his mother's funeral, and them always being around eachother. 

 _inseparable._  

And then he hugged him, put his arms around Steve's shoulders, for the first time in decades. And he had a small smile on his face as he sighed, leaned into him. Maybe it was what he'd been needing. 

"Thank you" he murmered into Steve's shoulder. 

Steve hummed softly, -"What for?" he went.

"For being there" Bucky told him. "Being you".

He could feel Steve smile in his shoulder, and after a while he pulled back.

_homecoming._

Steve still had a gentle smile on his face when he looked at him, and he sighed. "You're doing good Buck" he said. "Better than you think".

 _homecoming._   

He's trying and maybe that's what mattered in the end. He was trying to get better. 

He wrote about crinkled smiles that night, about soft words and comfort. He sketched orange skies and tender touches. 

And he went to sleep with a quiet brain, steady breathing and thoughts of blue eyes. 

He was trying, and sometimes, it worked out.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> what a wild ride!  
> don't you all just love bucky.  
> man. i could talk about him forever. he's my favourite. 
> 
> anyways- leave a comment if u want to. i'd highly appreciate it! 
> 
> and as always, thanks for reading. i'll be back when mcu makes stevebucky canon. or when they decide to wreck my soul with another movie.


End file.
